


Alibis

by JohnlockRelapse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Mystrade, M/M, Scotland Yard, Secret Relationship, secrecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockRelapse/pseuds/JohnlockRelapse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is away for the weekend, John indisposed. And Greg would never admit to himself how desperate he was for Sherlock’s help. A series of phone calls to concerned parties, and a frustrated Detective Inspector later, alibis would prove to never be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alibis

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Johnlock fanfic -- at least the first that I've finished. The summary is quite bad, and my thoughts were all over the place. Some tenses got mixed up, and I haven't got a Beta either. But then, I thought I'd let this fic live before I shoot it down. 
> 
> I’ve always wanted to write something like this. More particularly, something like the second to the last part of this fic, but then it took on a life of its own. Much thanks to Ria and Frances, who urged me to do this, and Dana who was always the first to read. I do not own anything; the characters and other pre-established plot points in this work of fiction are owned by the BBC, and its respective contributors. Do leave comments, or kudos if you feel the recognition be fit! Thank you for reading!

 

Greg was desperate.

He hated acknowledging it to himself, but he was. He was a Detective Inspector, sure. Respected in his division because of his solving rate, but no. This time, _this time_ when the murder is just too peculiar to be right up his alley, he needed something else. _Someone_ else. He needed a certain consulting detective. He needed the only man who could possibly crack the case wide open enough for him to dive right into it, with full force, and with Scotland Yard for back up. Greg Lestrade needed Sherlock Holmes. 

Greg didn’t have that luxury this time around. He was used to hopping into the back of a cab, commanding the driver to head on over to Baker Street without a second thought. He had that kind of luxury on a normal day, but not today. Because apparently, Sherlock “is going to his parents’ this weekend.” Greg thought it was out of character, but didn’t dwell too much on it. Something about Sherlock’s father celebrating his birthday, and Mycroft deciding to go to them as well, sounded quite reasonable enough for Greg to allow three days off-call for Sherlock. Three days off-call, _and_ no consultations.

With Sherlock a two-hour cab ride away — and not to mention, Sherlock way too irate with the parents and Mycroft breathing down his neck for three whole days — Greg had reached the point of uncontrollable hopelessness. The case was as cold as when they had begun, and, despite his faith in his own skills and capabilities, Greg knew that only Sherlock can help him now.

Greg considered consulting John, though, hoping Sherlock might have rubbed off on the doctor with the deductions sans the snarky arsehole tendencies. John was a trustworthy man who knew what he was doing, intelligent on his own but seemingly dim in the presence of his sociopathic and genius flatmate. He was an army doctor too, and a good one at that; John’s insights were valued, and to be quite honest, Greg appreciated John’s presence more than he did Sherlock’s — given John didn’t degrade Greg and his entire force’s existence, and emphasise repeatedly all their incompetencies. 

But John was indisposed, a bug in his system, a fever he can’t sweat out. So he apparently sought refuge on Mike Stamford’s couch, John’s version of a house-call doctor. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t going to be home, and being ill and alone might pose health and security problems for John. 

“Lestrade,” Sally started as she popped her head into his office. “What’s the next move?”

Greg shook his head, exasperated at the least, and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “I’ve got nothing,” he surrendered.

“Call the freak,” Sally suggested, crossing her arms over her chest. Greg was just about to open his mouth in protest, tell her that Sherlock was busy right now and he felt like he was in no place to disturb, but she spoke. “I know that you can’t call him right now, but somebody just lost his life, and needs justice. You’ve got to admit; Sherlock’d know what to do.”

Greg groaned, then sighed. “Fine, I’ll call him,” he said, picking up the phone on his desk. “But if he doesn’t pick up, I’m not calling again.”

“I don’t get why you didn’t call him in the first place,” she commented, giving a low grumble. “Don’t tell me you actually care about him now?”

“He never asks for an off-call, and I feel like I owe it to him to grant what he wants,” he argued back. Sally laughed mockingly. “What? He’s solved more than half my cases for me, and the fucking director will sack me without Sherlock Holmes. So if the man asks for an off-call weekend, I’m gonna give him his fucking off-call weekend.”

Sally hummed, an eyebrow quirked. “That, or you just have a soft spot for the freak,” she said, turning her back on the way out of the room. “The freak _and_ his brother.”

She was out the door before he could protest. 

He picked up the phone, and dialled Sherlock’s mobile.

 

 -

_Bliss._

Pure absolute bliss.

They arrived the day previous, on an unusually sunny Friday. They had packed light, just enough to stand the weather in the Isle of Wight for three days — not that they would spend a substantial amount of time dressed. 

John faked pre-sickness last Thursday, when Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were wrapping up the case. Three convincing coughing fits in one sitting during their post-case pints, and Scotland Yard was deceived. John told Lestrade too that he wouldn’t be at 221B, but instead would be at Stamford’s instead, recovering from a sickness he must have picked up somewhere dreadful. Mike had agreed of course, said he would cover for John if Lestrade were to inquire about the army doctor’s whereabouts. 

Mycroft did his part as well, played his charm with _Gregory,_ told him in behalf of his brother and himself that their father was having a quaint get together in Southampton. The Detective Inspector didn’t dare question the British government, and just like that, they had an alibi. 

John thought at first that all the secrecy was pointless. The Yard was going to find out eventually, so it seemed moot. But then Sherlock, in all his paranoia and “international reputation,” had to keep reminding John that he was in fact a liability to Sherlock, and would be the first target had they know the involvement between the two. The secrecy seemed all too necessary then, Yard be damned. The precautions didn’t seem too exaggerated, and that tiny gnawing that had been eating away at John — which periodically reminded him that he’s lying to a bunch of guys that he honestly considered friends — didn’t seem like too much of a burden after all. 

Mycroft was helpful; of course he was. The added security detail tended to be much whenever John and Sherlock would manage to get time away like this, be it on a day trip to Bath, or Sussex, or to Angelo’s on occasion. They hadn’t needed the detail before, but given they have added a few more activities to their detail routines (besides shagging behind sometimes closed doors, but more of dates, and lots of not-so-public displays of affection that Sherlock is not particularly proud of). 

But besides all that, John really thought it was worth it. All the effort, and the time put into keeping their coupling under wraps, it seemed like the only logical and safe thing to do. There was no way he was going to jeopardise his relationship (let alone his life) with Sherlock in any way possible. Plus, there was nothing in this world that would throw him off his bliss.

In his bliss, nothing else seemed to matter. Most certainly not Sherlock’s mobile ringing from the a few metres away. Most certainly not that, especially when John was gripping Sherlock’s hips in his hands, leaving bruises on his boyfriend’s skin, long finger-length red bruises on smooth white. Most certainly not that, especially when Sherlock’s groans and moans were flooding John’s senses, driving him further into a frantic state of carnal pleasure, grasping harder that his own knuckles turned white. Most certainly not that, when Sherlock was beginning to tighten around him, demanding release, and John hit him exactly _there right there God John don’t stop — Jesus fucking Christ fuck fuck John_. Most certainly not that, when the warmth spilled onto John’s hand wrapped around Sherlock. Most certainly not Sherlock’s fucking mobile, especially when every possible expletive known to mankind was dribbling past John’s lips simultaneous to the spasms racking through him with waves of climax. 

And Sherlock’s mobile be damned, John’s knees buckled underneath him, cheek pressed between the soft expanse of Sherlock’s back. They laid there, panting and giggling like a couple of college boys, John planting kisses on Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

John could very rightfully say he had never been so happy in his entire life.

He didn't even notice that Sherlock’s mobile stopped ringing.

 

-

“He isn’t picking up,” Greg said, slamming the phone for the umpteenth time on its dock that day. Sally flinched, lips pursed in contemplation. “That’s the last bloody call I’m placing on Sherlock’s mobile. No more.”

Sally rolled her eyes, and plopped herself down on the seat instead. “Fine, give it another half hour then try again,” she raised, “but in the mean time, why don’t you at least _try_ to get John on?”

“Why?”

“He’s just as good as Sherlock, and less hostile,” Sally said, already undocking the phone and handing it to Greg. “John might say the right thing at the right time; Sherlock must have taught his pet a thing or two by now.”

“First of all, Watson’s more than that,” Greg said, pointing the phone at Sally’s direction. She rolled her eyes at him. “Secondly, John’s sick and can’t make it in even if he wanted to. But all right, since you _insist,_ I’ll call Stamford.” 

 

-

Was Mike Stamford happy with his life? Perhaps. Was Mike Stamford self-actualised? Maybe not. Was he in a good place right now? One could say that. But was Mike Stamford proud fifty ways into Sunday when he found out John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were off to the Isle for holiday together — and not just _together,_ but together-together? A thousand times yes.

But Mike Stamford wouldn’t have known this of course had John not shown up on his doorstep, looking thoroughly anxious. And after cup of tea, and quite a number of awkward near-beginnings later, only did John finally speak.

“Listen, Mike, I need you to do something for me,” John had said, shifting uneasily in his seat. “You know I wouldn’t ask you for anything unless I really _really_ needed it, don’t you? So believe me when I tell you that this is of great importance to myself, and that I would appreciate your participation and confidence for this.”

Mike had been silenced, staring warily at him. What could John want from Mike that he couldn’t get from anybody else? Why not the Detective Inspector from the Yard, or the crime scene investigator, or even Molly and the others are Bart’s? Mike just nodded in response, swallowing down his rising suspicions.

“All right, so this weekend,” John had begun, licking his lips wet, “I’m going on holiday. The Yard can’t find out, so I’ve told them that I can’t be reached in the event a body drops for Sherlock and I to examine. The thing is I might have mentioned that I’m sick, and will be staying here instead of Baker Street, and I’m finding myself in need of a cover.”

Mike had squinted speculatively at him, his cheeks finally colouring a light shade of red as realisation dawns over him slowly but surely. “Yeah, no problem, mate, you’ve got it,” he choked out without a problem; but that wasn’t what made him antsy. “Why don’t you want the folks at the Yard to know that you’re going on holiday?”

“Hmm, well,” John had said, raising his eyebrows and tasting the words in his mouth intently, “let’s just say that the nature of the holiday might prove questionable for them. And if word goes out that I’m off, things might go awry on a graver scale.”

“Where are you off?” Mike had questioned, beginning to build steam on his interrogation. He had one direction for this conversation, and he had every intention to bring it towards the final inquisition. 

“Isle of Wight.”

“When exactly?”

“I’m leaving on Friday morning,” John had replied, biting the inside of his cheek, “and I’ll be returning Sunday afternoon. Just the whole weekend, so it won’t be too extended on your part. I hope it’s manageable enough, mate. You can back out whenever, and I can maybe think of a different excuse to feed them.”

“And what exactly is Sherlock’s role in this?” 

And that was it. John had clammed, and his jaw had screwed tight. Mike noticed the reddening of his friend’s neck above the hem of the jumper he was wearing, and later on, its spreading up to the tips of his ears. John opened his mouth to speak, but closed it without a word escaping. Mike laughed then, clapping his hands together jovially. John’s eyebrows knotted, but he remained mute.

“I’ve got you, mate,” Mike had said, rising from his seat, and patting John’s shoulder. The doctor rose, slightly a bit too dumbfounded to function properly. “You and Sherlock have a good time in the Isle. I’ll cover for you for as long as you’d like; just give me a ring for specifics if there need be.”

John hadn’t stayed much longer, but not before telling Mike something the man never expected.

“Hey, Mike,” John had said, halfway out of the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ve got you covered.”

“No, not just for that,” he corrected, regarding the floor with a fierce intensity. John moved his weight from one foot to another, and finally looked up. “Five years ago, you introduced me to who would later on be the love of my life. And if that’s not a reason to thank you, then I don’t know what is.”

Mike had smiled at him, the words getting caught in his throat. John took that as his cue to leave, and was gone.

Damn, Mike Stamford was good. 

 

-

“Damn it,” Greg exclaimed, tossing the entire telephone off the table. “Now, as it bloody well seems, John is ‘out.’ Last time I _bloody_ checked, he was _buggering_ sick. And Mike _bloody_ Stamford tells me that he _fucking_ left that morning to run some _goddamn_ errands.”

Anderson popped in then, pointedly glancing at Greg from beside Sally. “What’s happening?” he said to her. 

“What’s _happening,_ Anderson? This _bloody_ murder is frustrating the shit out of me, John Watson can’t be found as of this moment, and Sherlock Holmes is at his sodding family’s posh holiday house in Southampton.”

“Then call him.”

“I _can’t_ because he wanted an off-call!”

“Then what _matters_ to you, Greg?” Anderson said, sitting on the chair opposite Sally. “The case, or Sherlock Holmes’ privacy?”

Greg looked at Sally and Anderson back and forth, praying to the high heavens they let him off for respecting the man’s space. But no, all he got were urging stares. He groaned, throwing his hands up, and taking the telephone from the floor. 

“One call. Then I leave him alone. One call.”

 

-

The phone rung in their solitary home, jostling awake the silence that sat calmly within the household. Debra Holmes put her cup of tea down, and glanced over to her husband; a silent signal to answer the phone.

Arthur doesn’t even protest, just stands casually, takes the phone off the hook, and hands it over to his wife. 

“`Lo, is Sherlock in?” a low grumbly voice said over the line. 

Mycroft had warned Debra that someone might call to ask of Sherlock’s whereabouts. After being briefed that the general public who might be interested in said whereabouts, Debra knew not to give out his location — the Isle of Wight, with the charming lad that Sherlock has hitched his wagon to — and the nature of the getaway — intimate, romantic, and incredibly secret. Debra knew what she was not and was supposed to do, and the irate young man on the other end must be one of those that Mycroft was speaking of.

“Sorry, love,” Debra said softly. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Oh, apologies,” the man said, flustered. “This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade from the New Scotland Yard. I was hoping to speak to Sherlock Holmes, and I’m afraid it’s quite urgent.”

Debra didn’t mind keeping the secret for the boys. When Mycroft explained the consequences and costs to be paid if things go terribly amiss, the mother of two wasn’t hesitant to participate. Besides, she was ecstatic that her peculiar little boy finally found someone to be with for the rest of his life.

The first time she and Arthur had met Dr John H Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, they were floored not only by his credentials, but also by his softness in contrast to Sherlock’s cold and sharp-edge. She and Arthur visited their flat along Baker Street, just checking in on Sherlock really. As far as Debra knew, nothing was happening between her son and John, but she sensed something different. She knew her boy, and one look at him told her that Sherlock was well in John’s care. 

The second time she and Arthur met John, just John this time, Mrs Holmes — _please,_ Debra, love — he was much warmer, a lot more friendly and mild. That’s when Debra knew a shift had occurred; the dynamic between her son and John was riddled with tension, and it only took half of Debra’s patience to address the elephant in the room. True enough, John and Sherlock had gotten around, much to Arthur’s silent pride, and essentially, _together_. Sherlock was always so secretive, so he never mentioned anything other than, “We’re both extremely happy, Mummy. And I find it best not to speak any further; I do have a reputation to uphold.” But John had taken her son’s hand then, and just so, Debra held no qualms.

The last time she and Arthur met with John, he was more comfortable than ever, and looked very much like he belonged next to Debra’s once-“estranged” son. Sherlock and John had their hands clasped together, perched on latter’s knee, their sitting space in Debra and Arthur’s Sussex home blanketed by pleasant silence. This episode in Debra’s life had struck her and would most likely remain with her for long, because moments prior to settling with cuppas and respective literatures, John had plucked the courage to inform Debra and Arthur of his intentions of staying with Sherlock for good. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t know that John and Sherlock were in for the long haul, but it was heartening to hear it come from the man who’d managed to capture Sherlock’s heart. 

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” Debra said playfully, “I’m afraid Sherlock isn’t available. He excused himself right after lunchtime — seems like he doesn’t have enough to occupy him in our home. He’ll be back soon enough, and I’ll tell him to give you a ring afterwards?”

She heard the Detective curse under his breath, but she chose to ignore it. Mycroft mentioned the exasperation to be expected. “That’d be very well, Mrs Holmes,” he supplied, recovering from the profanity. “Thank you very much. Have yourself a lovely day.”

“I will, love, thanks,” Debra responded. “My regards to the New Scotland Yard.”

 

- 

“I just handed to case over to Dimmock for safekeeping in the time being,” Sally said, leading Greg and Anderson down the street, toward to bistro. 

It was close to seven in the evening, and the case hadn’t inched forward since the last breakthrough — which proved to be a dead-end all the while. Greg knew that he had nothing else to put into it other than his most untoward anger, so he decided to pass it over to Dimmock; at least that way, there’s chance of progress — otherwise, Greg would just mope over the entire thing added to the fact his most important and wanted assets are nowhere to be found. 

At this point, Greg was beyond frustrated and desperate. And desperate times call for desperate measures — but no. Greg dared not take those desperate measures because once he crosses that line, there would be no returning. Mycroft was the only answer to getting a hold of Sherlock; besides, they were both in Southampton last time he checked, and John Watson was completely under Mycroft thumb. 

“I’m thinking about calling Mycroft Holmes,” Greg mumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and feigning preoccupation. 

“That bad, huh?” Anderson commented, chuckling quietly. “What good would the other Holmes do? Threaten Sherlock with his umbrella to answer your phone calls? I doubt it.”

“Well, at least Mycroft is an umbrella distance away from Sherlock bloody Holmes,” Greg grumbled back. “I’ll phone him as soon as we get back. Remind me. That git is going to get a piece of my mind.”

 

-

“Mycroft, what in the bloody fucking _hell_ are you playing at?” Greg blasted as soon as Mycroft answered the phone.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose as he leant back against his seat, crossing his legs underneath the table in the Diogenes Club. “What are you talking about, Gregory?” he replied calmly. “I can’t really talk right now.”

“Oh, yeah? You can’t talk?” Greg said, seething. “I called _your mum,_ Mycroft. She said Sherlock was out earlier, and she _also_ told me should would call when he comes around. Has he not, then, come around? Are you with him right now?”

Mycroft sighed. “My brother’s whereabouts are not my main priority, or particular area of concern as of this moment. Just as my mother said, I’ll get back to you if he returns. For the meantime, I would very much like to retreat. It’s a pleasure speaking with you, Gregory, as always, but I must go.”

“No, you will most definitely _not_ go.” 

“What is it you want exactly, Detective Inspector?”

Mycroft heard Greg exhale loudly at the other end of the line, and the transfer of the mobile from one hand to the other. “I’m on a singularly difficult case, if you must know,” he said, “and I’m finding myself in need of Sherlock. As usual. And I know he asked for an off-weekend to be with _your parents_ , but a few minutes might not be so bad, I feel.”

Mycroft’s mind raced, thinking of an alibi to give Greg Lestrade. He knew he couldn’t just divulge his brother’s location — even if justice was on the line. Mycroft’s main concern _was_ in fact Sherlock’s wellbeing, and the word spreading to the New Scotland Yard would ensure all hell to break loose. He squinted uneasily at the chip off the mahogany on his table, and contemplated. 

“Well, in behalf of my brother, I’m sorry that he’s unavailable,” he said, maintaining complete neutrality. “As I’ve said, he isn’t in my presence presently, and my mum was not lying when she said he was out earlier. He’s probably wandered off, and gotten something to escape the entrapments of this house. If Sherlock does come back within the next hour or two, rest assured, dear Detective Inspector, that your urgency will make it to him.”

Greg spit a profanity, and grumbled unintelligibly. “Fine,” he spit. “If he’s not back within the next hour or two”— he paused to mockingly and humourlessly chuckle—“I’m going to send dispatch to your parents’ doorstep in Southampton. You understand I have the veracity and integrity to push through with my threats, Mycroft.”

“My, my, Gregory,” Mycroft said then, playfully jesting the other man. “You’re that desperate to get into contact with Sherlock, are you? Quite, it seems.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Greg said, dejected. “I’ll have the call when you do. Thanks for your time, Mr Holmes.”

“Always a pleasure, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, sugary and sweet. Greg was about to hang up when Mycroft called his attention back, saying, “Might as suggest you try John Watson one last time before giving up?”

Greg breathed out steadily, and probably leant far against his office chair. “I might as well.”

 

- 

Sherlock would never admit how _human_ he is.

If anything, he prides himself in being a high-functioning sociopath. He knew how pressure points worked, and he was a master and manipulator of his emotions. Sherlock Holmes was a machine, and a well-oiled one at that, that needed no feelings to hinder his mental and intellectual prowess.

But everybody knows that is false. It was rather unfortunate that Sherlock was one of the lasts to find out as well.

He wasn’t a high-functioning sociopath. High-functioning, yes, but sociopath? Far from it. He was at most antisocial, but he was just as agreeable as the next genius, and ineptly so. John certainly didn’t think that way; John loved him all the same. But Sherlock would never admit that either.

Sherlock knew how pressure points worked, and he knew the lengths that the likes of Charles Augustus Magnussen would go. He knew that, but he’d be lying if he said that he knew what the hell he is doing. He had at minimum twenty pressure points, at least twenty tiny liabilities, and twenty different and various _things to lose._ It took John a merciless amount of time to forgive him for faking his death, but not as long as it took for John to forgive him for considering the latter one of these pressure points, one of these liabilities, and one of Sherlock’s weaknesses.

That’s exactly what John Watson was, though, to Sherlock: a human error. John was Sherlock’s human error, and ultimately, the reason that makes Sherlock human. Again, he’d never tell anybody this, not with a straight face at least, and for good reason. Not only because his pride swallows him whole for reasons uncountable — one being the successful alluring of John, and the reputation of coldness and antipathy that Sherlock wished to uphold — but also exactly because John was something Sherlock can very much lose. And Sherlock didn’t want that. At all.

Their entire relationship is teetering at the end of a steep cliff; one wrong move, and it would all fall apart. Not by their doing, but because of all the wrong people who might do all the wrong things to either of them. Sherlock didn’t mind them doing wrong to him; he was used to the violence and the pain. He was equipped enough to control and suppress whatever sentiments he might feel. But John? No. Sherlock would endure all before John Watson suffers any of it.

Sherlock was so far into his reverie, face buried in John’s blonde hair, arm tucked under John’s head, feet lodged between John’s legs, toes flush against John’s calves, lips pressed on John’s scalp, to notice any form of external disturbances. 

It wasn’t until John shifted in his half-sleep that Sherlock realised a mobile — he wasn’t sure if it was John’s or his own; God be damned he didn’t care — was ringing close by. Sherlock grabbed it lithely, switched it off, and threw it. 

 

-

A new day, new possibilities, and new attempts at contacting Sherlock Holmes before he arrives in town. A new day, as it seems, beginning with Greg’s cheek superimposed with keyboard letters. He’d fallen asleep at his desk again. Damn it.

Dimmock seemed to be pouring his all on the case, wanting to prove a point to the division that he was worth the space he was occupying.

Besides, it was Sunday, and that meant Sherlock would be back on Baker Street later in the afternoon. That, too, would mean that, even if Greg never got to asking Mike Stamford again about John’s location after lunchtime yesterday, the good doctor would be back with Sherlock, and they could get going with the case. 

Maybe he should try one last time. One last time, and then he’ll stop. Sherlock wouldn’t mind, Greg feels; as far as Mycroft put it, Sherlock must be in avid search for some stimulation. That wouldn't explain Sherlock ignoring all of Greg’s previous calls, but it was worth the shot. A shot that Greg was willing to take given he fell asleep on duty, hoping to the high heavens that Dimmock would come through with something groundbreaking.

Ignoring the guilt of disturbing Sherlock consuming him whole, and one last spark of hope to muster, Greg picked up his phone, scrolled through his contacts for what felt like the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours, and spotted Sherlock's name. Hovering over the screen, Greg sighed. Then clicked.

 

-

The mobile ringing was loud enough to make John’s skin crawl. 

It was shrill, and it gave the same sensations as being tasered repeatedly in the jugular. The day before had been the height of his entire month — perhaps even year. Twenty-four hours of Sherlock, just Sherlock, in every possible way, and in every possible surface. His body ached, and the thirteen-hour sleep felt just about right. The Good Lord knew that the thread count on this immaculate bed could lure John into staying even longer, only to rise to get on his knees, and have Sherlock slow and easy. 

But the odds didn’t seem to favour them. The bloody mobile wouldn’t shut the fuck up. His head was starting to throb with the intensity of the ringing, the sounds dissolving into a single monotonous pitch. 

“John, for the love of God,” Sherlock said groggily, tightening his arms around the smaller man. 

Sherlock practically engulfed him, every limb attached to some expanse of John’s body, skin on skin. Sherlock groaned, lips already enveloping John’s earlobe, sending shocks of pleasure through his body in crashes. 

Sherlock flicked his tongue languidly on the shell of John’s ear, and John’s eyes rolled back involuntarily into his head. He bucked hips backwards onto Sherlock’s, and felt the hardness between his boyfriend’s legs. John gyrated teasingly against the tenting boxers, earning a quiet and raspy hum from Sherlock.

“Pick up the phone,” Sherlock said, breathing loudly. 

It made John’s hair rise, and sent shivers on its way. Sherlock snaked his hand across John’s stomach, and dipped his long fingers into John’s pants. He gasped as Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s already-throbbing —

_Ring. Ring. Ring ring ring. Ring. Ring. Ring ring ring._

“Answer the bloody phone,” Sherlock almost growled. 

John swallowed, and blindly reached for the phone on the night table. _Greg Lestrade,_ it read. He sighed, closing his eyes, and clicked the offending green button.

“What do you want, Greg?” John said exasperatedly. “I’m still quite sick.”

Then there was silence.

It seemed to go on forever.

Seconds ticking by, and no response from the other end.

John was getting even more frustrated, and if it were possible, even harder, as Sherlock began to stroke downwards slowly. John stifled a moan behind his hand, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Greg, if you’ve called for absolutely no reason, I would very much like it if you hung up,” John said, but paused as Sherlock gave another tug. “I’m”—tug—“busy”—tug, stifled moan—“right now.”

Silence.

Was Greg in his right state of mind? Did he dial John by accident? 

“Greg?” 

Silence.

“Lestrade?”

Silence.

“I’m going to hang up now—“

“John?” Greg finally said, voice testing and, if John were to guess, a little jeering. “Are you…” The Detective Inspector cleared his throat. “Are you all right there, mate?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” John said, swatting Sherlock’s hand away — much effort to his willpower — and motioning for his boyfriend to shut up, for once. “A bit under the weather, but a lot better since yesterday.”

“John,” Greg said slowly, testing.

Sherlock suckled John’s neck impatiently, already leaving a bright purple-and-red mark on skin. “ _What?_ ” John demanded, frustrated half-sexually, half-in annoyance.

He rolled onto his side and sat at the edge of the bed, earning him an indignant grunt from Sherlock. Sherlock rose, and padded his way to the bathroom, all the way mumbling “cockblock” and “Lestrade, sodding git.” 

“It’s nothing,” Greg said with the beginnings of a chuckle.

“No, it’s not nothing.”

Silence.

It was deafening.

This was unnerving.

John hated every second of it.

Goddamn it—

“This is Sherlock’s phone, mate.”

And John’s blood ran cold. It felt like ice was injected directly into his bloodstream, and everything in his system turned into heavy and pounding frost. He felt his face pale, and his hands go limp on the phone.

“What?” John said with lack of a better response. His mouth felt too dry, and his saliva too thick. He tried to clear his throat, but to no avail.

“I called Sherlock Holmes,” Greg explained slowly, “and… someone who _isn’t_ Sherlock Holmes answered the phone.” 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his slender waist. John looked up at him in sheer horror, blood completely drained from his face. Sherlock noticed the change in demeanour immediately, but John held a finger up, gesturing him to stay in his place.

“I was told by Mycroft last Friday morning,” Greg resumed, “that Sherlock would be at Southampton for a family gathering. It then comes to my knowledge that a supposedly very sick John Watson would reside on one Mike Stamford’s couch. You see, I called Stamford. He said you were out. I called Sherlock’s _bleedin’_ mother, and she too said Sherlock was out.”

“Listen, Greg—“

“I won’t tell anybody,” Greg interjected before John could get any words in. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

Silence.

Dial tone.

 

-

Greg was in shock.

Where the hell can he find those god-awful shock blankets now? 

He didn’t realise he was shaking until Sally walked into his office with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand. Greg tried as he might to stop the quivering that wracked through his body, but managed not to in the least bit. Sally placed the mug on his table, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed.

“You all right there, Greg?” she said, measuring his expression.

He couldn’t tell her. He just couldn’t. 

Given the drastic arrangements that they had made — with Stamford, with Mycroft, with Sherlock’s parents — and the damage control they would deal with to make this all disappear, Greg had a brief moment of lucidity. He cleared his throat.

“All’s well,” he said, voice firm and convincing. Greg brought the mug to his lips, and sipped slowly. “Any news from Dimmock?”

“Not exactly,” she said, squinting suspiciously at him. “Have you tried calling Sherlock this morning?”

Greg snapped his eyes upward to the sergeant, attempting to hide any signs of giveaway. Panic rose to his neck, painting his skin a bright shade of red. Sally rolled her eyes, and sat quickly on the armchair. 

“Tell me what’s happened,” she said dismissively, crossing her arms across her chest. Greg swallowed audibly whilst shaking his head, feigning innocence. “Oh, c’mon, Greg. You choose now to hold out on us?”

“I’m not holding out on anything,” he said, calming himself. “I’m not hiding anything.”

Sally huffed in resignation, and stood; she turned back one last time before leaving. “You’re a good friend, Greg,” she said with a small grin. “Drink your coffee.”

Greg forced a responding smile, but he could only imagine himself contorting his face into a sad grimace.

Because now?

His two mates were shagging, and Greg wasn’t sure just yet if he was happy about it, ecstatic, or scarred for life.

 

-

“Welcome back, Mr Holmes,” Anderson said mockingly as Sherlock strides into the New Scotland Yard homicide division, John Watson on tow. “How was Southampton?”

Sherlock shot him a glare, and muttered, “So much better than I had expected, given you’re a good 73 miles away.”

Greg looked up from the case files laid out in front of him, attention diverted to the pair marching with vigour. He gulped a mouthful of air, stood, and rebuffed. John closed the door behind him once they were in the confines of Greg’s office, Sherlock crowding the Detective Inspector until he fell onto his seat.

“Sherlock,” he greeted warily, “you’re back so soon. I thought you’d arrive later this afternoon.”

“Change of plans, it seems,” Sherlock bit out. He leant against the desk, and folded his arms. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything—“ Greg started, sending a panicked gaze at John by the door. 

“He was there when you called, mate,” John supplied, staring at the ground. “No point holding back.”

“What do you know, and how much have you assumed?” Sherlock pestered. 

Greg tried to stutter out an explanation, but no words found their way out of his mouth, almost clamped shut in sudden shock. “I don’t know _anything_ for sure, but—“

“Stop lying to me,” Sherlock hissed, inching his face closer to Greg’s intimidatingly. “You heard John. I was _there_ when he picked up my phone by _accident._ Tell me what you know, Detective Inspector, and I just might not send Mycroft to collect you.”

“On what accounts!” Greg fought back, appalled by the threat. “All I bloody know is—“

“Is _what,_ Gavin?”

“Greg,” John mumbled closer to him than Sherlock had anticipated. “His name’s Greg.”

“Really?”

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” Greg exclaimed. The two other men looked at him immediately, one pair of eyes cold and steely from exerted dominance, the other pair soft and tentative. “John picked up your bloody phone at 9 in the morning! He sounded like he had just woken up, and I’m not even going to _pretend_ like I didn’t know what was happening while he was talking to me then and there! What was I _supposed_ to think? I’m not a bloody idiot! And if it bloody matters to you both so much, I didn’t tell anybody!”

John released the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and slumped against the back wall. Sherlock’s eyes softened, and his posture waned. Greg saw the shift in disposition; he relaxed as well.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured so gently that Greg barely heard a sound. 

“You know I’ve got your backs,” the Detective Inspector retorted, feeling a renewed sense of pride. “If anything, I’m happy for you both — I mean, I had no idea. I’d have been the last person to find out if one were to rely on fucking _deducing_ skills. I was completely in the dark about this while everybody else was running bets on the floor”—Sherlock opened his mouth briefly, then closed it again, pressing his lips into a tight line”—but damn it, I’m so happy for you.”

“We’re pretty happy for us too,” John commented with a smile. 

Sherlock and John shared a glance, but a glance was enough. Greg had to look away, felt like he was intruding on something entirely too intimate. In that moment, he wished nothing else but to dig a hole and jump into it — this moment he walked in on with Sherlock and John, he didn’t deserve to see. 

“You promise not to tell anybody,” Sherlock said gravely once he’d snapped out of his stupor. “You must.”

“I do, I promise,” Greg said, bobbing his head with a nod reassuringly.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head from its position, straightening his back with ease. He turned the collar on his coat up for good measure, and faced John. “Crisis averted,” he said, walking towards his— what was it then? Boyfriend? Greg dared not think about it too long. 

And as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked away, bounded into the lift, and disappeared behind the metal doors, Greg Lestrade experienced what he could only describe as clarity. 

Those two idiots, after all that’s been said and done, after everything they’d been through, and now all the precautions they put themselves through just to thwart particularly Greg off-course their scent, were _happy._

He never thought he would see John Watson, once limping, unsure, and timid John Watson, happily walking alongside “high-functioning sociopath” Sherlock Holmes — Sherlock, the same 22-year-old boy that Greg found in a drug den, the same Sherlock that Greg watched piece himself together into the great man he is today —  _happy._

For a second, Greg thought he felt a stinging behind his eyes. But the second passed, and his heart gave brief squeeze in his chest. He was proud of them, is what he was. He felt like a proud parent. But he’d never tell anybody this.

Because after years of watching over Sherlock, and some odd five years more stepping back and letting John do the job, Greg knew:

Sherlock had found someone who needed him back.

 

 

 


End file.
